Coming out into
the open square from the maze of narrow lanes, where stands the inn,
they found a large assemblage of women, strangers, so the hostess said.
She could distinguish them by their corselets, their fustian skirts,
their foot-gear. Those were from Trevi, those from Filettino, and those
others from Vallepietra. The hostess went into a bakehouse on the
right of the church, where several women of Jenne were having their
_stiacciati_ [1] baked, each having brought her own.
[Footnote 1: _Stiacciati_ a sort of very large, round cake, common
in all parts of Italy. It is made of cornflour, of wheatflour, or of
chestnut-flour, and in some places of vegetables. It is mixed with, oil,
and baked in a flat pan.--_Translators Note_.]
"Strangers, who wish to talk with our Saint," she said to Maria. She did
not, like her husband, say "Fra Benedetto," she called him "the Saint."
"But not to his face," she declared, crimsoning, "because it vexes him."
"No, he does not really get angry, because he is a saint, but he begs
very earnestly not to be called thus.
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